


Colors To A Blind Man

by SnorkleShit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Highschool AU, M/M, Oneshot, TW:Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnorkleShit/pseuds/SnorkleShit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destiel Highschool AU oneshot.   At the bottom of a cliff there is a story painted in blood,a story that never got the chance to be told. Because you never appreciate what you had until it slips through your fingers.</p><p>Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colors To A Blind Man

**Author's Note:**

> Hold fast to dreams  
> For if dreams die  
> Life is a broken-winged bird  
> That cannot fly.  
> Hold fast to dreams  
> For when dreams go  
> Life is a barren field  
> Frozen with snow.  
> -  
> Langston Hughes

The cemetery was gold.

And Castiel Novak’s eyes were blue.

                 The setting sun filtered through the trees and lit up the space full of gray stones like something out of a dream. If this was a dream, Dean would very much like to go back to the real world. In the distance, a progression of people dressed in black Dean had never known stood in memorial, moving away from the pale white headstone with freshly laid grass over the ground in front of it.

As they moved on, Dean found himself drawing closer.

—————————————————

             Dean had never taken high school very seriously. He’d laugh and slack and sleep around, moving from bed to bed. That’s the way it was, and Dean had never thought for a moment he deserved anything better. Maybe if things had been different, in another world and another time, a certain someone would have convinced him otherwise. Somewhere in the back of his mind the quiet boy in the corner with big old books and a trench coat was always fluttering, but Dean never let him pique any sort of interest. After all, Castiel was beautiful and smart and kept to himself, why would he bother with someone like Dean? Because Dean had always known he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d be stuck in Lawrence fixing cars and drinking away his own worthlessness his whole life. Someone like Castiel would graduate and go to college and become someone great, an artist or an author or an actor. Why bother trying to glimpse something you’ll never get to see, right? Love was something meant for better people. So Dean drank away what he’d never felt. And that was his downfall, in the end. A classic high school lake party, and he was drunk off his ass and in the back of his mind he knew this would never change, but that only made him want to drink more. So he did. When he’d heard talk that someone had dragged the quiet dark haired boy to the party, Dean forced himself to pay it no mind.

       

 

            The lake house was on a jutting cliff over the water, a safe distance from the edge of course. The moon shined down on the lake like silver pouring over obsidian. But back then, Dean hadn’t paid it any mind. He wandered over the gravel by the edge and tossed some rocks in, his slow going mind churning but never thinking anything at all. By the trees, he heard a noise. A sound like a yelp and a scrambling, then a cry for help. Dean’s hazy mind processed it, and he stumbled down the cliff line, till he fell to his knees in front a scene that would never leave his mind.

   Wide panicked blue eyes stared up into his as Castiel scrambled to cling the the rocky edge, his legs dangling over the watery jagged rocks below. “Help! Please,I cant— Help!" Cas screamed,fingers shaking and legs kicking as he tried to find some purchase. Dean’s addled brain panicked as well, and he inched down closer to edge, scrambling to get closer. As he reached out to grab his hand, his knee slipped. In slow motion, he felt himself tilting to the left. Before his head smashed against the ground,the last thing he saw was impossible blue, slowly falling away, gracefully but tragic, like an angel falling from heaven. Like something out of a dream. If this was a dream,for the first time in his life, Dean would very much like to go back to the real world.

        When he came to, the sky was lighting up orange as though it was burning. Castiel was gone and the jagged rocks below were painted crimson red. He knelt, staring. It was strange. There were no more sounds of laughter and screams and music and desperate voices pleading for help. The silence was deafening. He felt a numb disconnected wonder. He felt like he was seeing colors for the first time, the red was so vivid and the sky was so bright, like a dream. If this was a dream, for the second time in his life, Dean would very much like to go back to the real world.

The family didn’t blame him.

They didn’t know him.

And that was when Dean realized he didn’t know himself.

  He didn’t attend the funeral or the burial per say, he kept his distance. He stayed in the trees, so flushed and green and full of life he felt out of place.

As they moved on, Dean drew closer.

He gripped a single red rose. Deep and crimson and vivid, like the blood against the rocks. He gently laid it on the pale white headstone. It contrasted so intensely against the white, so fresh and alive against the cold stone. The opposite of how Dean must look, pale and grey and dull against the vivid Kansas scenery, a washed out silhoutte ,cold in a world that was burning. The sunlight making everything glow around him, like something out of a dream. If this was a dream, for the third time in his life, Dean would very much like to go back to the real world.

 

 

 

     And as he sat calmly, some time later, with his back against a tree. Looking over the rocks and the water, the razor in his hand was sharp and bite like ice, sending a fire to Dean’s heart. Because nothing burned like cold. He saw no point leaving a note- this shortlived story was engraved in white tombstones and stained red on the cliffface for anyone to see,even if years from now no one cared to read it.  A haze proceeded the initial pain, like he was falling away in slow motion. Poetic justice, perhaps. The blood that blossomed up was rich and crimson and fell over his wrist slowly,like a dream.

If this was a dream, for the last time in time in his life, Dean would very much like to go back to the real world.

 

Because the rose was crimson like blood that never should have been spilled.

Because the black dress the mother wore matched the car he loved and didn’t deserve,

Because the Kansas sky was burning, and Dean still felt cold

Becuase the fresh green that rolled across the hills spoke of new life

And the steely gray of the razor that fell from his limp fingertips spoke of death

Because the cemetery was gold.

And Castiel Novak’s eye’s were blue.


End file.
